


The Spell

by Nirva



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-30
Updated: 2010-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-12 07:52:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nirva/pseuds/Nirva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos has chameleon eyes, doesn't he? But why?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spell

**Author's Note:**

> English is not my mother language and I have no beta, so all mistakes are mine.

Methos was in a wonderful mood. His life came to normal, his friendship with MacLeod was recovering. Add here bright sun, singing birds, green grass, other attributes of a good weather and you'll get an almost happy immortal. He quickly climbed the gangplank of MacLeod's barge mentally repeating a long monologue he'd been inventing the whole night. He intended to invite Mac to the rock concert-kind of music Highlander really hated-and needed strong arguments to persuade the stubborn scot. He opened the door and halted. MacLeod was sitting on the coach with a grim expression on his face. Methos opened his mouth to ask what was going on but failed because Highlander suddenly bewildered him with a strange question:  
"Methos, are you all right?"  
"What do you mean?"  
"How you've felt mmm… recently?"  
"I'm fine. Mac what's happened?"  
"Sit down" MacLeod pointed to the place on the coach next to him. More than confused with a strange welcome Methos sat where he'd been told. For some time Mac kept silence piercing his friend with a gaze, then asked.  
"Methos, what do you smoke?"  
"What?"  
Once in Persia Methos had smoked a hookah, but only up to the day some unknown headhunter sent an assassin to put there a deadly poison. That day he nearly lost his head. And ever since he's hated everything that produced smoke, including chimneys.  
"It's weird- said MacLeod after the explanations-very, very weird…"  
" Are you going to tell me what's happened" this time Methos sounded really alarmed.  
"Your eyes.."  
"What is it with my eyes?" Methos rose, came up to the mirror and pulled down the inferior eyelid. Nothing unusual… The same hazel eyes.  
"You see..they change all the time,- MacLeod sighed,- I noticed long ago but didn't dare to ask. I thought maybe it was a usual thing at your age.."  
"But I do not see anything… abnormal."  
MacLeod shrugged.  
"Amanda noticed it too. Yesterday they were amber green, three days ago pure gold and now…-Mac made a pause.  
"And now?"  
"Now they sparkle with wisdom of fifty centuries …so I ask: are you all right?"  
The last remark finished Methos. He stumbled back to the coach, dropped down onto it and poured himself a full glass of scotch.  
"Why can't I see it?"  
"I don't know. But we worry about you, Methos. Do you remember a week ago we were at Joe's?"  
"Yeah"  
"Your eyes were like whirlpools, I noticed."  
Methos nearly spilled his scotch.  
"Like what?"  
" Like..whirlpools" repeated MacLeod sheepishly "Joe thought you were sick…And there is more."  
This very moment the Old man was going to sip from his glass but his hand began to tremble so hard he had to put it down.  
"More?"  
"Yes, your face…"  
Methos sprinted to the mirror, but again noticed nothing unusual. May be the nose should be a little smaller..but  
"It also changes."  
He sighed with relief  
"Ah, It's OK then, we all have emotions."  
"No, you don't understand, it's different. Sometimes you look twenty years old, sometimes twenty five and sometimes…like a teenager, especially when you sleep" added MacLeod and blushed.  
Methos' jaw dropped. He wanted to ask when had Mac seen him sleeping, but decided there was enough shocking discoveries for one day.  
"It's impossible MacLeod, my first death occured when I was thirty two" he suddenly realized that he'd just given away one of his secrets and hold his tongue but it was too late.  
"Ha! And lied, you remembered nothing before the first head, well it doesn't matter now."  
Methos sat down and drained three glasses one by one, feeling really upset. The only thing that could be clearly seen now in his eyes was a desire to be dead drunk. The fourth glass was taken from him by Mac.  
Methos sighed and leant back into the coach.  
"I am dead, MacLeod."  
"Why so?"  
"Don't you understand? All my life, OK almost all life I've managed to keep a low profile mostly thanks to my ordinary appearance. How long will I last if my face and eyes change…How often does it happen?"  
"Eyes every five minutes, face every fifteen." answered Mac, watching his friend's iris becoming sea green.  
"…Change every ten minutes. What if they become red or yellow?" he rubbed his face,"Must be a spell…"  
"What? It's ridiculous, Methos, Never thought you could believe in such things."  
"I don't know what to believe in anymore, Mac. When did you notice?"  
"I think.. I think.. After Bordeaux."  
"I knew it! Bloody witch!"  
"What witch?"  
"How many witches are you acquainted with, MacLeod?"  
"Well, I..."  
Method rolled his eyes.  
"Cassandra, Mac! She couldn't kill me herself so she decided... Wait a second."  
"What?"  
"Look at me. Don't squint!"  
MacLeod opened his eyes as wide as possible.  
"Damn! You too..."  
"Me too what?"  
"Your eyes Macleod! They also change. Two minutes ago they were just like puppy's and now..."  
MacLeod grew cold.  
"...they are like agates!"  
"Oh, God!" Mac sank into the coach and fixed his eyes on the fire in front of him.  
"And If I were you I wouldn't stare like that.."  
"Why?"  
"Because now they reflect the flame and.."  
"Oh, shut up! Yours are like stars..."  
"Shit! You met with her again, didn't you?"  
"Why do you think so? " MacLeod slightly blushed.  
" Because fifty meters is too much to cast a spell, you idiot" shouted Methos, suddenly losing control,"You need to be close and look straight into the eyes of a victim. And before Bordeaux she'd had no reasons."  
Now it was MacLeod's turn to look depressed.  
"Why did she do this to me?"  
"Because of me, I guess" muttered Methos. He rose from the coach and began to pace," The question is what to do now."  
"And you don't know how to get rid of.. this thing?"  
"I do, but you are going not to like it."  
"OK, speak."  
Methos made an expressive gesture as if cutting his throat.  
"We must behead each other?   
"Not each other, but those who cast the spell".   
Highlander's face hardened.  
"No! There must be another way!"  
"There is no another way MacLeod"  
Methos angrily grabbed his coat and headed to the door  
"See you in the graveyard, hope you'll like the tomb…"   
MacLeod looked at him with the eyes of the offended puppy.  
"Wait!"   
"What?"   
"What about my face?" Methos sighed deeply, came back and turned Mac to the light to take a better look.  
"Well, you don't look like a teenager, maybe because you are not asleep…Hmmm… but the clean lines of your face perfectly harmonize with the large chocolate eyes shaded by long dark lashes…"   
"Bloody, witch!!!"  
An unexpected cry made Methos jump.  
"Clear lines!!!!Stay here"   
Unceremoniously MacLeod pushed the Eldest back to the coach.  
"I'll be right back"  
He took his katana and disappeared before Methos could say a word. Highlander came back in an hour. Cast at Methos a dark glance he took him by the hand, dragged to the porthole and looked at his face.   
Then sighed with relief.   
"So?"   
"Now they are just hazel"   
Mac suddenly smiled.  
"And mine?"   
"Darker than mine, but not like agates anymore."   
MacLeod poured them both scotch and saluted with his glass.  
"To the life without witches, old friend!"   
"By the way, Mac do you want to go to the concert with me?."


End file.
